#Tar Pit

[teratophallia]

Monster Design for @/cocoapuppii on BlueSky and Twitter!! They won my free monster design raffle and this is what we collabed on <3 Want to see the slight NSFT version of him? Check me out on Bluesky (18+ ONLY) for the full res, or Twitter (18+ ONLY)!

[silverbridge-harbor]

Falling into the tar pits at Claire's

Being stuck with no hope of escape at Claire's

Getting fossilized with the bestie at Claire's

[saltingthecookingwine]

Thirteen years ago today, on July 20th, 2010, I smelled the La Brea Tar Pits, started cough-laughing about how bad it smelled and tripped over my own feet.

The mildly creepy dying animal sculptures are worth the trip alone. The museum was nice too.

[gorogues]

Fictober 2024

Prompt number #10 Fanfiction Fandom: Flash Rogues Rating: T – Teen and up Warnings: Abuse of prisoners by guards, profanity Notes: Set vaguely during Geoff Johns' Flash run, but at no particular time.

Day Ten: “Is this normal?”

It was now evening at Iron Heights, and a loud bell rang when the clock reached ten PM.

“Time for bed, shitbirds!” a guard shouted, banging his nightstick on the nearest cell door.  A small phalanx of guards moved in to ‘encourage’ the prisoners to lie down, shouting and pounding on the doors of anyone who remained up.  The lights didn’t dim, because they never did.

Within minutes, most of the prisoners were in bed, or what passed for bed given their unique circumstances; Tar Pit’s burning gooey body just sat or lay on the reinforced floor of his cell.

“Now’s time for group therapy,” one guard muttered to the newest employee on the Pipeline, who looked confused.  “Just let `em do their shit so it’ll be over quick.”

“Checking in with everybody!” Hartley shouted from his bed.  “Are you all alive and well?”

“Yo!” said Joey.

“Here!” Lashawn called, an air of desperation in her voice.

“Flash be with us,” Cicada intoned, which was the only answer he ever gave.

“Yeah, I’m okay…jerk,” Jeremy muttered.  He was still angry about the beating he’d received from Hartley while escaping during the Frenzy virus incident, and as usual Hartley ignored him.

“I am here,” Roscoe said.

“Idiots,” Dr Alchemy grumbled from his desk, unbothered by the prison’s bedtime rules, just as he was indifferent to everything else.  Sometimes he chose to respond to the safety roll call and sometimes he didn’t. 

“Here and tired,” Fallout said from his heavily shielded cell, even though he was certain nobody could hear him behind all the lead cladding and the electrical activity in the room.  He would have been heartened to know that Hartley heard him, as it was almost the only human contact he was able to make with anyone.

“I’m fine,” Isaac Bowin declared.

“Present, but suffering terribly from the lack of an audience!” Kadabra announced in the grandiose tone everyone knew to expect from him.

But one prisoner didn’t answer.

“Turtle, are you there?  Are you still alive?  Turtle..?” Hartley shouted, a bit concerned.  He had no great love for the Turtle nor any other of his fellow inmates, but he’d decided that the Pipeline prisoners should maintain a sense of solidarity because nobody else cared about their welfare.

There was no response for about thirty seconds, and then finally the Turtle grunted loudly.  “…Yes… I`m…. okay….”

The new guard frowned and looked at his colleague, wondering why they let the activity continue.  “Is this normal?"

“Yeah, ever since that Piper guy showed up, they do it every night at the same time.  We tried to crack down on it a while ago, but they fought back and kept doing it, so now Wolfe just pretends it’s not happening.  Some of these goons are a real handful and it’s not worth the grief.”

“All right, stay safe everyone,” Hartley called to the others, though only a few opted to respond to him a second time.  The guard standing outside Hartley’s cell bellowed “Now go the fuck to sleep, scumbags!” and hit the metal door with his nightstick to make an overwhelming sound to hurt the musician’s sensitive ears.

Soon, the Pipeline was quiet aside from the activity of the guards and Lashawn’s soft sobbing into a threadbare pillow.  But nobody slept.

[gameraboy2]

Land of the Lost (1974), "Tar Pit"

[ben-miller-art]

Flash Villains - Tar Pit

Not sure why I wanted to draw Tar Pit, but I did, and it was fun. He's definitely a staple villain with a lot of charisma, and honestly a kind of tragic origin. He definitely needs to be used more. I give major credit to Flash villains who pose an actually physical threat to him, that aren't speedsters.

Design wise there isn't much to change or work with, IMO. I considered adding some bones to him, but that would lean more into a natural tar pit, of which he is not. My biggest concern is making him visually different to characters like Plasmus or Clayface. And despite how much I enjoy how he turned out, I don't know if I succeeded on that front. A problem for later I guess.

[gummi-stims]

Gifs from my polycule's trip to the Chicago Field Museum yesterday!

Gifs are mine, feel free to use but please read and respect the DNI in my bio c:

[right-hand-of-the-black-sand]

My personal headcanon is that Black Sand as a magical substance is similar in appearance and function to tar. I especially believe that after my trip to the La Brea Tar Pits.

Most of the tar pits were blocked from public access for conservation purposes as well as public safety, but there were plenty of smaller pits in the grass for people to interact with. These interactions usually involved poking at the tar with sticks and then using the tar to draw pictures on the nearby trees. Yes, I do think that is exactly what Aladdin would have done if he had access to the sand.

Apart from the skeletons of animals that were excavated from the tar pits, there were also these handles inside the museum with metal plates on the bottom where you could collect and try to lift tar from the tar pits. When I tell you that I almost threw my back out at 24 years of age...

Anyway, all that to say that I think the magical Black Sand, especially as seen in The Secret of Dagger Rock, is a more maleable form of tar. It's extremely adhesive, it appears to have traits of a thick liquid, and those who get stuck in it are only made to sink deeper when they try to get out.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Tar Pit and Axel vs the Flash.

Complete with terrible late 90s/early 2000s slang!

Wally and Tar Pit are based on the cover of Flash vol. 2 #174, which was drawn by Brian Bolland.

[tired-and-unjellied]

I once again wish my friend back then didn't refuse to teach me how to troll people, because, geez.

Speaking out isn't enough. I want them to bathe in their anger to the point they get away from the screen and go touch grass. Water so hot the frog would do its best to leave immediately.

Antisemites, anti-Palestinians, transphobes, misogynists, you name it

[pamithebunterfly2007]

Pami and her friends got stuck at a Tar Pit

Basically what happened that they go through a broken and old bridge that passes loads of huge pits of tar. They carefully tried to pass through but the bridge broke and all of them fell to the tar pit, unable to get out by flying and sink in until they are full submerged in tar. We are not sure that if they are able to get out or sink into the tar. And Damn, Kathy will laugh at them and share an embarrassing photo about them sinking to their doom.

(Note: This is my Main OC’s old look)

@chrisloch6-blog

@artgygrl

@nicky-toony

@notsoyt

@art1c-m0nk3ys

@berryboyhub

@frostythriller07

@gamerhyena33

[bricksxbooks]

"Love at First Bite"

LEGO Ideas Challenge Entry: Create Your Own Exhibition February 2024 ?? parts (brick built) MOC

Two dinosaur enthusiasts are excited to check out the new tar pits exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, but end up finding each other <3

Follow me on LEGO Ideas: bricksxbooks

[gorogues]

Poster by Darren Auck.

[creepyclothdoll]

Pit

I have a friend who lives in a tar pit. 

I love them. But if you hang out with them a lot, the tar gets on you and you can’t get it off for the longest time. It’s really easy to get stuck to them and fall into the pit if you’re not careful. But most people are. Most people avoid the pit entirely. That’s why my friend is lonely most of the time.

When I first met them, they were about waist-deep in the tar. You’d never know it, but under that black sticky mess was a pair of the most cutsey socks you ever saw. White fluffy pomeranians crocheted on. That’s what they said to me, anyway. All I could ever make out were the beady eyes of little black creatures clinging to their legs, slicked with viscous, heavy liquid.

They made some jokes about the tar pit, and we laughed. It was harder to pry them out than you’d think. It took all five of us, days of patience, and several contraptions. They sat down on the edge of the granite ledge overlooking the tar pit, their lower half covered in hot black ooze which stuck to the dirt and accumulated dead leaves and sand. 

They wrinkled their nose at this.

“How come this isn’t happening to you?” they said, looking at our blue jeans and dusty hiking boots, which were mostly clear of tar. 

“It is,” I said, showing them the tarry mess on my hands and elbows, coated with debris. 

“Only because you touched me,” they replied, staring at the dirt and tar on themselves with growing disgust.  “I think I would have died if you hadn’t come,” they said to me. When we started to leave, they started to cry. “You are abandoning me now? After saving me?” They asked. 

“Obviously we want you to come with us,” I said. 

“It’s because I’m made of tar,” they spat. 

We told them they were not made of tar. But nothing we said could convince them. We tried to scrape the tar off of them, but they only panicked when our hands came away blackened again. 

“We have to leave,” my other friends said to me after a long long time. “We can’t stay here forever, waiting for them to be ready. No one can survive here.”

They were right. The tar pit stank. The tar gurgled and sucked and emitted foul-smelling gasses. Nothing grew around here, and nothing could live long in this place. 

My friends left us. I was the only one who stayed.

“I will prove to you that the tar comes off,” I promised. “I will prove to you that you belong in the world.”

Every day, we took a little walk further and further from the tar pit. My friend saw things that delighted them. They heard birdsong. They tasted crabapples and raspberries and wild leeks. But sometimes, insects would get stuck to the tar on their legs, and would die from the effort of escaping. And my friend would believe they were horrible again. Every day, we scraped a little more of the tar away. But my friend would see new tar on their fingers and mine and believe the stain was only spreading.

When I needed to go home to sleep, to see my family, and eat something that didn’t taste like smoke and oil and petroleum, my friend would weep.

“I know you like them more than me,” they’d cry. “You only feel sorry for me. You’re tired of all this tar. I’m noxious, I’m poison.”

One day, when I came back to visit them, I didn’t see them at their usual resting place near the edge of the tar pit. I walked to the ledge and looked down, and there they were, ankle-deep in the tar again, among the animal bones and the boiling toxic fumes. 

This time, their excuse was that they’d left their favorite watch somewhere in the tar, and they wanted it back. Their arms were sticky up to their elbows, searching for it. I can’t remember if they found it or not. Not that it matters. 

They had a lot of excuses over the years. They’d scream for help and someone– sometimes me, sometimes other passing folks– would hear and come lift them out of the pit. And each time, there would be fresh, hot, sticky tar on their skin, and anything that touched them would stick to them and die there or come away stained. 

We tried soaps and creams and pumice stones. Sometimes, these things worked. But as the tar started to come off, so too would the dead mice and luna moths and spiders, the dead white flowers preserved in the black, the suffocated frogs and trampled baby snakes and those allegedly pretty crocheted socks and layers of skin. And it hurt. And it disgusted them. And then the next day I’d find them back in the tar pit again.

I visit them every now and then, of course. I bring them snacks and little things I think they’ll like. 

I’m not the only one. Once, I saw them pull another would-be-rescuer deep into the tar with them. He screamed and strained to get away from the tar pit, but my friend clung to him, desperate and grateful, dragging him deeper and deeper into the thick, viscous, stinking mass. He only barely escaped, spitting and crying and swearing to me that he’d never return to this place. 

“He abandoned me,” my friend despaired. “He said he wanted me, but he left. He acted like I was disgusting.”

“That wasn’t nice of him,” I said, passing them the bottle of sticky-sweet honey mead, their favorite.

“It’s because I’m awful,” they said, taking a drink and passing it back.

It’s because you tried to drown him, I thought. 

“I want you to come out of the tar pit,” I said. I say this every time. “Come out and try again.”

But a long time ago, they stopped trying. 

“This is my home,” they say. “I’m made of tar.”

They get angry at me when I tell them they are not made of tar. They are made of blood and flesh and that’s why they hurt so much. That’s why they can’t survive. 

You don’t notice it creeping up on you, but at some point, when you hang out near the tar pit, when you spend so much of your time trying to save the person inside, you become aware that all of your things are stained with tar. You go to kiss someone and your fingers stick in her hair, and you have the sudden and terrible sense that you’re becoming tangled in some terrible trap you can never escape and you flinch away so hard that you rip her hairs out. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It doesn’t come off. I feel horrible.”

“You’re not horrible,” she says. “It’s just the tar.”

But it feels like the tar is a part of me now. 

“I love you,” I say to the person in the tar pit.

“I’m going to die here,” they cry up at me. Nowadays, they’ve sunk in up to their neck. Their pretty pink shirt has long been submerged in the burning black tar. Their hair is a sheet of slick black rubbery ooze. Their lips are close to the surface. 

“Please come out,” I say.

“I can’t,” they reply. “I’m trapped.”

“Take my hand,” I say.

“I can’t,” they reply. “It’s too far away.”

“I’ll throw down a rope,” I say.

“No. It’s too hard to raise my arms from the tar now. The tar is too thick and heavy.”

“Why aren’t you calling for help?”

“I’ll just drown them. There’s no point.”

“We can get lots of people. We can bring machines.”

“There’s no point,” they say. “I’ll just stain them. They’ll all be cruel to me anyway. No one wants a tar monster ruining them with their touch, spreading tar everywhere they go. And I hate them all for that.”

“The tar comes off,” I shout. 

“You know it doesn’t.”

“You have to try,” I plead.

“I’m going to die here,” they say.

“Let me help you. Let anyone help you. Come drink the mead you like. Come eat the cakes you like. Come get a new pair of fluffy socks. But you have to do something to save yourself. Please. You have to try.”

“I’m going to die here,” they say.

I’m sitting on the ledge now. I’m watching their eyes as their face sinks closer to the surface of the tar. 

“I love you,” I say again.

“No one loves me,” the sea of tar responds. “I am poison. I am rot. I will suffocate you.”

“I do love you,” I lie to the tar.

“I ruin everything. I am hate.”

“I love you,” I lie again to the tar. 

“Why are you lying?” It gurgles and hisses and steams. “All you have for me is pity and resentment. Touch me and I will drown you.”

I am lying because I still see my friend’s eyes peeking over the black oily pit. I can still see the color they dyed their hair on top– pink, their favorite. I can still see the bunny hair clip they like. 

They’re still in there. 

My friend lives in the tar pit. 

Only the tar speaks now. 

It will not let go of them. They will not let go of it.

[abigailbozarthart]

This a big enough art dump?

[pinetreepilgrimage]

sloshing around in the creek I stepped into some really soft mud and started to sink. in that moment I was instantly sent back to when I was 11 hyperfixiated with mammoths and extict cretures horrified that the la brea tar pits have finally claimed me like all the creatures I was obsessed with